


Perspective

by chrissie0707



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 20:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13725678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissie0707/pseuds/chrissie0707
Summary: Pre-series. This is the moment that will make or break his boy. The story of Dean's first kill at 16 told in three parts, from three different perspectives.





	1. Part I: Sam

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for this story came waaaaay back in September of 2015. CornishGirl had requested a fic based on the story Dean tells Gordon in "Bloodlust," the hunt when he was sixteen years old. I've been working on this on and off since - mostly off, obviously - but finally sat my butt down last week and made myself finish it. 
> 
> One story told in three parts, from three perspectives. First part will be Sam, then Dean, then John.

The way Sam sees it, if he's old enough to be left in the car when a hunt's "too dangerous," then he's definitely old enough to stay behind in their craphole, roach-infested apartment for a few hours when it's not. He doesn't really see the difference, except he'd be unquestionably safer in the apartment, even miles removed from the overbearing and overly protective shadow cast by his father. As usual, any argument he dares make is a moot point, a cause lost before he even opens his mouth to plead his case.

Two hours, tops, Dad says as he's unloading gear at the trunk. One, Dean amends, cocky and abrasive and getting taller by the _day_ , it seems.

His father and brother have been working this case pretty steadily for a couple of weeks, and it's occupied most of their time the last two days. And if Dad is so confident that he can bag this thing tonight in only a couple of hours, then Sam doesn't really need to BE HERE. But Dad is all about the training wheels these days, so he's got them both hiking through the woods by the virtue of the moon overhead, hauling heavy duffels crammed with weapons that Sam's embarrassed to be proficient in using.

On a _school night._

Sam doesn't even know what this thing they're hunting is called, and he doesn't care. There's a piece of bark or leaf caught under Sam's cap, poking him in the scalp and ratcheting up his irritation. He huffs as he adjusts the strap of his designated load, the wide strip of canvas digging an uncomfortable crevice in the soft spot between his neck and shoulder. "What's in here, Dad? Rocks?"

He's shushed in stereo, and Dean delivers a swift, light kick to the back of his knee for good measure.

Sam stumbles and whirls, glaring up at his brother. "Jerk."

Dean's lip twitches, eyes bright and excited as he waggles his brows. "Bitch."

"Boys," Dad warns, speaking up for the first time since they crossed the tree line. He's about five paces ahead of them, and Sam is sandwiched in the middle like a limp stack of deli meat.

That's how it feels, anyway. That's how it _always_ feels. If he has to be boxed in and protected at all times, he doesn't know why he's expected to be here at all.

"Dad, it's late," he says, unable to keep the high pitch of complaint from his voice. There's been no sign of this thing. No sign of anything, actually. Just a frustratingly long stretch of cold, empty forest trail. "We've already been out here for over an hour."

"You got somewhere else to be?" Dad asks, sounding almost amused.

He stops walking and flicks a look back at Dean, who rolls his eyes and is all too eager to pay back the show of favoritism. Like he's giving up the rat, he offers, "He brought _homework_." He says it like it's a filthy word, which is sort of funny, considering how many filthy words Dean actually says these days.

Dad cocks his head, drops his eyes. "This is important. Lives are at stake, Samuel."

Sam's meant to stand down now, but his father's words don't carry quite as much weight as they used to. Lives are _always_ at stake, and Sam feels like his own is on permanent hold, right as he's beginning to toy with the idea of having one. He doesn't even point out that he left the backpack in the car so he could carry the duffel, just drops the bag to the ground with a sigh and a muted clank of metal on metal. "Lives of _dogs_ , Dad." This monster hasn't even killed a person yet, as far as they know. "And unless you want me to tell Ms. Graham that I didn't finish my assignments because of the flying monster that's terrorizing the city, I need to get it done."

Dad tips his temple, a silent concession. But of course, he wouldn't be caught dead telling Sam out loud that he's right. He bends to retrieve the dropped duffel and slings it over his own shoulder, then gestures vaguely back the way they've trekked. "Dean, walk your brother back to the car."

"Wh – _Dad_ ," Dean protests, seemingly offended by just the idea, and Sam smirks a little at the whine in his brother's voice. "You need back up."

Dad raises his eyebrows, shift the weight of the crossbow in his arms. "Then I suggest you stop talking and start walking."

"Yes, sir," Dean grumbles. He rolls his eyes one more time, just to make sure Sam knows exactly how inconvenienced he is. "Let's go." As per usual, he takes his frustration out on his little brother, grabbing Sam roughly by the sleeve of his jacket and shoving him down the path.

The walk back is silent and solemn on Dean's part, as he shoots down each and every one of Sam's attempts at conversation until he finally gives up altogether. It's eerily quiet along the path after that, and by the time they reach the car, Dean is jittery with palpable tension and worry, his fingers tightening in Sam's sleeve as he very nearly throws his brother the last remaining bit.

"Homework," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief, or disapproval. Could honestly go either way. He turns to Sam, bouncing on the balls of his feet, antsy and fidgeting. Wanting to get back to Dad. "You good here?"

Sam nods, makes a show of opening the car door and plopping dramatically into the backseat.

Dean opens the door to the front seat and leans in to pop the glove box, checking for the spare gun, a 9mm Glock that Sam can clean and load and aim and shoot. His brother nods tightly, satisfied and annoyed both, as he withdraws the weapon and leaves it on the seat for the same reason it's in the glovebox to begin with. Just in case.

There's a chill in the air but it doesn't seem to bother Dean, who's dressed for action. No bulky added weight of a jacket, just one of the Metallica t-shirts Sam's doomed to inherit. He rests a hand on the roof of the car, fingertips tapping. "Don't forget to – "

"Lock the doors," Sam finishes. "I know, Dean. I'm not an idiot."

Dean nods again. "Don't go anywhere, and don't come crying back to us if you get scared of the dark. This thing'll probably eat you." It's an empty threat, no heat at all in his words. "We won't be long."

Sam shoos him away, deciding, for the sake of self-preservation, not to point out that's what Dad said over an hour earlier. Or that Dean had been even _more_ wrong in thinking they'd have this night wrapped up with a bow on top by now. He watches the dark blob of his brother cross the lot, waits until he disappears within the dense tree line before wrestling free his American History textbook and a compact flashlight, digs into the bottom of the bag for a pencil and flips to the page bookmarked with a folded worksheet.

Sam gives it his best shot, but ends up reading the same page a half-dozen times. He can't concentrate, can't focus on the words on the page. He'd made a big stink about having homework, but can't possibly be expected to study when all his attention is being spent straining to hear any hint that his family is in danger. An unearthly screech, maybe, or the _crack_ of gunshots.

He checks the time on his watch, but it's only been twenty minutes since Dean left. Dad's good, but it's probably too early to be expecting them back. He chews his lip, glances up and squints into the dark beyond the windshield. He lifts the flashlight but it does no good, beam rebounding off the glass and back into his eyes. He sets the textbook aside and shoves open the wide car door, the _creak_ sounding long and loud against the backdrop of a painfully silent night, and leans on the top of the window, keeping one leg inside the car like an anchor, listening.

A breeze audibly rustles the leaves of the trees along the edge of the woods, but there isn't a single animal sound to be heard, the area's wildlife scattered in fear or gobbled up by the monster before it decided to move on to farm animals and pets, thereby finally alerting his father to its presence.

Thunder cracks overhead without the warning of a lightning bolt, and the first fat raindrops smack the bill of Sam's cap. His tense fingers leave a cloud on the window's cool glass, and he swallows nervously.

The prolonged silence leaves Sam with a prickling sort of fear, as he waits for the cacophony of sounds that he knows accompany action and danger. He's scared for Dean, and for Dad, even though Sam knows now that his father's done this sort of thing loads of times. For years before he knew about what was really going on.

Something big _swishes_ by over his head, and Sam panics, draws himself back into the car without closing the door. He shuts off the flashlight and holds his breath, hands shaking and heart thumping wildly. He counts to ten, then takes a breath. Counts to one hundred, then slowly straightens, peers over the bench seat.

There's nothing to see, just a damp stretch of empty parking lot. Sam opens his mouth but stays silent, doesn't dare call out for Dad or Dean. Doesn't want to give them away, or worse, draw the nasty beast straight toward him.

Another _crack_ rips through the air. Not thunder this time.

A gun, he notes, heart pounding, head buzzing. Dean had the gun, not Dad. His brother's name is caught in his suddenly bone-dry mouth, and he swallows, feeling sick.

He scoops up the Glock from the front seat and rushes out of the car, takes a few steps toward the woods. He stands, cold and alone and feeling horribly exposed as the rain picks up into a sudden, fast downpour, and thinks he hears sounds in the distance. Another _whump_ of massive wings, a frantic shout, a cry of pain, but he knows Dad and Dean are too deep in the woods, and it's just his imagination.

Sam stands in the rain until it peters out completely, pistol held loosely at his side, and debates how long he should wait before going back into the woods after them. There's movement at the tree line before he decides, a dark lumbering blob and glint of moonlight off the barrel of the shotgun, the bright beam of a flashlight. The light alone is evidence that the danger has passed, the monster dispatched, and he sags against the car and releases a grateful breath.

The flashlight beam bobs erratically, and when they get close enough to the car, it's obvious that Dad is limping and Dean is bloody. Too bloody for school in the morning, and Sam doesn't know why that's the thought that strikes his frazzled mind in the moment. Closer still, and Sam can tell they're both soaked to the bone, and smell like a campfire.

It occurs to him _why_ , and he wrinkles his nose. He's happy they're both more or less okay; ecstatic, actually. But still. _Gross._

Neither comments on the fact Sam is soaking wet and standing in the middle of the parking lot instead of being safely locked inside the car like he was supposed to be, or the gun in his hand. Dad just gives him a tired smile as he hauls the bags to the trunk with a stiff, uneven gait, and Dean jerks a bloody thumb over his shoulder. "Backseat, little brother."

His smoke-smelling clothes are covered with blood, a stark handprint on the chest of his shredded t-shirt, smears and tracks down the thighs of his soggy, muddy jeans. Sam wordlessly hands the Glock over Dean. His brother checks the safety – _still on, stupid_ – and tucks it back into the glove box. As Sam yanks open the back door, he watches his brother scoop away another palmful of blood from the side of his head and transfer it to his shirt easily and carelessly, like it's sweat.

He frowns, feeling a curious, not entirely unfamiliar mix of worry and annoyance wash over him. "What's wrong with you?"

Dean just grins and shakes his head, sends a spray of rain and watery blood from his hair. "Nothin', Sammy. I'm awesome."

He's not _awesome._ He looks like he was just spit from a spin cycle full of knives. Beneath the blood his face is stark-white in the moonlight, but the smile seems genuine enough.

"Okay," Sam relents uneasily, flopping against the seatback. The danger has passed, and once again he's just the tagalong in the backseat.

Dad groans as he settles himself behind the wheel.

"You good to drive?"

He might look like crap, but there's a new sort of confidence in his brother's voice, and Sam's not the only one who angles an odd look at Dean.

Dad twists the keys in the ignition, shifts the car into reverse. "I'll manage." He frowns at Dean, lifts off the seat and produces a bandana from his back pocket. "Here. Try not to bleed on the upholstery."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Nice, Dad." But he's not an idiot, knows the nonchalant attitude toward their injuries is for his benefit, and Dean's. There'll be stitches when they get home, ice packs and the good painkillers Dad keeps in his room, and no school in the morning for Dean. For whatever reason, that thought lingers in his mind the entire drive back to the apartment.

At a stoplight, Dad jerks his chin toward the wound on Dean's shoulder, the obvious source of all that blood on his shirt. "Put some pressure on that. We'll be home soon."

Dean hisses as he complies, and Sam figures something to have come from this night – aside from the monster being dead – is that he'll never be forced to wear that horrendous shirt.


	2. Part II: Dean

Sam's packing with an unusual vigor, quickly cramming a spiral notebook and a textbook with a broken spine into his backpack when he thinks Dean's not looking. The backpack doesn't usually make the trip with them, because Sam's not typically depended upon for gear. The kid's still very much a bystander in this gig, even though Dean was handling weapon reloads when he was Sammy's age.

Dean leans against the doorframe. "What's all that?"

"Homework." Sam snorts, doesn't look up as he hikes the pack's straps up onto his skinny shoulders. "Not surprised you don't recognize it."

It's cute the little twerp thinks Dean gives two shits about homework. Or school, in general. He hasn't even set foot in the place this week. "Whatever. Dad's waiting. Get movin'."

They've tracked the Baal to a park at the edge of town, where a few circular walking trails weave through dense forest. He and Dad had scoped the place out earlier in the day while Sammy was in his beloved school, but the place had been crawling with just enough people to leave his father feeling uneasy about going after the beastie in daylight. It'll be deserted now, about an hour after dinner, and after sunset. Thing seems to like hunting at night anyway, since no weekend warriors have been reported missing or found half-eaten. Yet. Just a few cattle, and some dogs plucked from their fenced-in backyards. The sporadic attacks probably wouldn't have even raised a red flag with their father, but one of the dogs was a Rottweiler, and he figured that was just one step shy of this thing snagging some poor kiddo riding their bicycle after supper.

The streetlight over the Impala is humming and flickering, casting intermittent shadows along the cracked pavement of the road. There's a nearly full moon overhead, and it smells like rain's coming. Dad's shutting the trunk when they trot down the steps toward the car, raises an eyebrow as he moves around to the driver's side. "About left you here."

"Blame the kid." Dean pokes his brother between the shoulder blades.

Sam stumbles off the curb, catches himself against the car and glares up at Dean.

He shrugs and doesn't apologize, even if it was a harder shove than he'd meant it to be. Dean's got a lot of energy built up, been feeling restless and high-strung for hours and could hardly eat anything for dinner. He's been itching to get back into the woods all afternoon, to hunt this thing _dead_ , at his father's side.

He fidgets in his seat, drumming his fingertips on the dash until Dad shoots him a glare, then glances over his shoulder into the backseat. "It's probably nesting somewhere in the woods," he says unnecessarily, just feeling a need to show off to Sam that he knows more than the kid does.

"Yeah." Sam rolls his eyes, unimpressed. He's been slouched in his seat, stubbornly maintaining his sour mood through the entire twenty-minute drive. "Duh." Unimpressed seems to be Sammy's default setting recently, like all of this is an inconvenience, and not the coolest shit ever.

"It does this thing with its wings," Dean continues, undeterred. He raises a hand, waves it vaguely. "Screws with your head."

Sam stares up at him, expressionless. "Cool."

"Whatever," Dean mutters, flopping back against the seat to resume his anxious drum solo against the dashboard.

The park's small, unlit parking lot is empty, as anticipated, the picnic tables and grill stations looking eerie and abandoned in the moonlight. Dad pulls the Impala to a stop, wordlessly exits the car and stalks around to the trunk.

Dean throws open his door and moves to follow suit, pauses when his brother's hand grips his shoulder over the seatback.

"How long will this take?" The question's directed at Dean, but he asks just loud enough to ensure Dad can hear him, setting his big brother up.

_The balls on this one._ Dean wrenches his arm away, slides out of the car. "It'll take as long as it takes, Sammy. Chill." He watches as Dad shifts things around in the trunk, moving various items into a pair of duffels. Dean knows the drill; one for him, and one for Sammy. Sometimes when he's lucky, he gets a gun instead of a bag. And he's definitely feeling like tonight might be one of those nights.

"Two hours," Dad barks, answering Sam's question without raising his eyes from his task. "Tops." There's an edge in his tone, one that only comes out to counteract Sam's burgeoning attitude, the one he's been practicing for years and really honed to perfection about six months ago.

Dean swoops in swiftly to diffuse the situation. "One," he counters, sticking a hip against the car.

Sam huffs but quiets down, accepts the bag Dad hands him with an exaggerated _oof._ Even the brat knows better than to argue now. Once the weapons are out, the hunt is on, and Dad takes it very seriously.

Dean perks up at the sight of the beauty Dad pulls from the trunk right before he closes the lid. "Ooh, I call crossbow."

"In your dreams, kid." Dad hands him a second bag and a shotgun instead.

The gun's not nothing, but it _is_ for emergencies only, because they aren't so far from town that a gunshot won't probably bring the cops running. And they both know buckshot won't do much good; the silver-tipped arrows loaded in the crossbow are needed to kill the Baal.

The initial adrenaline rush of the hunt begins to fade after an actionless hour traipsing through the woods. They stick mostly to the trails at first, retracing their earlier steps and looking for any indication that something big and nasty has been using this forest as home for the past few weeks. Sam continues to bitch, about the time, the weather, and every damn rock and branch along the way.

He's being an annoying little bitch, but he's not wrong about the weather. It's chillier than Dean had expected, and he probably shouldn't have left his jacket back at the car. But Dad did. The path is dark, their way lit only by the moon overhead. There's a flashlight in his bag but he's been ordered to keep it there. No need to give away their position to the monster when they're looking for its lair.

After another ten minutes, the bell in Sam's head goes off, and he comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the path. "Dad," he complains, in a voice loud enough to probably rouse the attention of any nearby monsters. "It's late. We've already been out here for over an hour."

"You got somewhere else to be?" Dad turns, meets Dean's eyes over Sam's head with an amused expression.

He takes the cue, rolls his eyes. "He brought _homework._ "

Dean can't see much in the dark, but he catches the strange look that crosses his father's face, something that briefly softens the lines around his eyes before he recovers. "This is important. Lives are at stake, Samuel."

Instead of "yessir," Sam goes all in, dropping his bag to the ground and jangling the contents. "Lives of dogs, Dad. And unless you want me to tell Ms. Graham that I didn't finish my assignments because of the flying monster that's terrorizing the city, I need to get it done."

Dean winces, prepares to become collateral damage in the earful his little brother's about to be on the receiving end of.

But surprisingly, Dad doesn't put up a fight. He drops his shoulders with a sigh and stoops to collect the bag. "Dean, walk your brother back to the car."

"Wh – Dad!" Dean protests, though he understands the irony and knows he's asking for a slap upside the head the same way Sammy just has. "You need backup."

Dad raises an eyebrow. "Then I suggest you stop talking and start walking."

He doesn't know why _he's_ the one getting this look, when Sammy's the one who's turning into a disrespectful little shit. "Yes, sir," Dean grumbles. He fists the sleeve of his little brother's jacket, propels Sam's skinny ass back down the path. "Let's go."

Sam, who friggin' packed _homework_ for a _hunt_ , would rather be in the car anyway, and he couldn't be happier. He spends the walk back chattering on about Dad and school and some chick Becca, like there isn't probably a monster in these woods who wouldn't mind a fresh steak carved from a moody twelve-year-old. He clearly feels like he's just won some battle of wills with Dad.

And what the hell does Dean know; maybe he did.

He shushes his brother and hurries him along. He leads with the shotgun, just in case, anxious to get back to Dad. The man's been hunting for more than ten years, but now that Dean's been allowed along more and more instead of being left behind like a helpless kid, now that he's gotten a firsthand look at the kind of danger his father's been facing all these years, he can't stomach the thought of Dad not having backup. Sam's right; as far as they know, the Baal hasn't graduated from cows and puppies to people yet. But that thought isn't enough to make him feel any better. He's spent years dealing with the aftermath of Dad's hunts, patching him up as Sammy slept in the next room, learning how to stitch a wound while trying not to get too much blood on the kitchen linoleum or puke from nerves.

Dean's distracted and antsy as he unloads Sam at the car, but takes enough time to make sure the kid's not gonna get any funny ideas. Makes sure he's gonna stay in the car, gets him the spare Glock from the glove box and maybe scares him a little. But maybe Sammy needs it, because the kid's not taking any of this as seriously as he should.

He hurries back down the trail, squinting in the sparse moonlight for any sign that his father had doubled-back to a new trail or veered off course. He picks up the pace, not thinking of stealth or self-preservation, only of getting back to Dad. Dean's just started thinking that he might have gotten lost himself when the path suddenly opens into a clearing, and Dean sags with relief at the sight of his father crouching across the space. "Dad."

"Surprised it didn't hear you," his father returns in a low, deliberate tone. "Sure sounded like you snapped every damn twig running in here." He wipes dirt from his hands, gestures to a tangle of twisted branches and feathers and – Dean swallows – a lot of bloody remains of something. Probably the Rottweiler. "It's been nesting here. Hasn't been gone long."

_I know, Dad. I'm not an idiot._ Dean bites his tongue and nods, shifting the weight of the shotgun in his arms. "What do you wanna do?"

"I want you to find cover while I wait for this son of a bitch to come back." Dad rotates on the balls of his feet and points out a dense spot in the foliage to the right, safe from whatever action he anticipates taking place when the Baal comes home.

"Dad – "

"Do as I say, Dean." Dad rises, crossbow held loosely at his side. "Or you can go back to the car and wait with your brother."

Dean shifts his weight, gaze sweeping the clearing. Without preamble, the rain that's been threatening for hours finally starts to fall – fat, cold drops against his bare arms. It's too quiet, too still. Like the Baal's already here, watching them. He tries again. "Dad…"

"Now, Dean." His father can feel it, too. His voice is low and tight, eyes drifting skyward as he slowly raises the crossbow.

He swallows uneasily but complies, backing slowly toward the spot while keeping his father in his eye line. The heel of his shoe comes down on a twig – _stupid, stupid, STUPID_ – which _snaps_ with exaggeration, seems to echo loudly through the quiet night.

The answering screech is immediate, and seems to be coming from all directions. The awful, ear-splitting sound is followed by an approach of large, monstrous wings. The wings are the most dangerous part of this monster – it can screw with your head, incapacitate you in a single flap if it wants to.

Dad whirls, eyes narrowed. "Dean, down! Now!"

He doesn't argue; just hits the dirt and rolls to the edge of the clearing. He instinctively throws his arms over his head, heart pounding and breath suddenly coming in erratic, pathetic pulls for air. For a moment, nothing happens, and nothing attacks, and Dean slowly lowers his hands, fingers tightening against the stock of the shotgun.

Then the Baal swoops down into the clearing, a frighteningly silent mass of muscle as it zeroes in on Dad. It flaps its wings only once, but that's all it takes to send Dad staggering, drops him to one knee as he struggles to keep ahold of the crossbow.

A dull ache pounds in Dean's head, but the flap of wings has knocked Dad completely off his game. He doesn't have a chance to find a shot before he's knocked viciously aside by one of the powerful wings, straight into the trunk of a wide tree. He connects with sickeningly _crack_ that looses the weapon from his grip and turns Dean's stomach, and when he hits the ground at an awkward angle, he doesn't move.

Dean bites his lip and holds back his shout of alarm, stares at the still form of his father sprawled on the ground. "Come on, Dad," he breathes. "Get up." The rain picks up, _pitting_ loudly against the leaves over his head, and thunder rolls low and grumbly in the distance. Dad doesn't move, and Dean turns his attention to the Baal.

A fortunately-timed flash of lightning provides him a full view of the creature, and the illustrations Dad found don't do the thing justice. The Baal stands about six feet tall, and its wingspan must clear almost twice that, the end of each tipped with a nasty looking claw. Its body is featherless and muscular, sleek and oily-looking, and its eyes are deep-set in a grotesque, noseless face, glowing, yellow and wild and feral. It folds its wings back and squawks at where Dad is crumpled, stalks forward with claws extended.

Dean squashes his fear and elbows up, grips the shotgun and shoves to his feet as carefully and quietly as he can. Which is nowhere near quietly enough, obviously, because the Baal stops its descent on Dad and turns instead to face him.

And now he really needs to find the goddamn crossbow.

The next flap of the Baal's wings _whoomphs_ in Dean's head. His vision blurs and his balance is GONE. He goes tottering sideways into a tree, rough bark biting into his shoulder and bouncing him back. He drops to the ground as gracefully as if one leg's been chunked out from under him. He loses track of the shotgun, the monster, and which way is up.

"Dean!"

Dad's voice. _Dad's okay._ Or, as okay as he can be after that hit he took, and there's no doubt that he's still battling the effects of the Baal's wings, like Dean now is himself. He curls his fingers in the grass and dirt and rocks, blinking furiously in the direction of his father's voice. Or, in his best guess of the direction of his father's voice. By some stroke of luck, he feels out the barrel of the shotgun and swings upward, connects with something solid and buys himself a few more seconds to find the crossbow. But he can't focus for shit, blinks rainwater from his eyes and tries to stand, only to crash back to his knees.

"Dean! Wings!"

_Wings. Right._ He grips the shotgun and rolls to his back, struggles upright. The gun feels like it weighs a hundred pounds but he takes aim as well as he can through the rain in his eyes and the _thump_ in his skull, and blasts the son of the bitch.

The buckshot punches through one of the Baal's leathery wings and it screams, shrill and piercing. The monster hobbles away, folded over its injured wing.

Dean closes his eyes as the world spins around him, coughs and rolls to the side, finds his father's eyes in another lightning flash.

Dad's dragged himself into a seated position against the tree but he's not moving to stand. One leg is stuck awkwardly out in front of him, and he's breathing hard., head tipped back against the trunk. "Get the crossbow, Dean."

His father's eyes guide him to where the weapon lies, closer to Dean than it is to Dad. He nods, begins the process of dragging himself across the clearing.

Except the Baal's recovered from the shot, panting and dragging its wounded wing at its side, digging up furrows in the mud, kicking up dried leaves and twigs.

Dean takes a breath. He needs to kill this thing and get them both the hell out of here. Except he's pissed the Baal off, and that's about to become a problem. He nods to himself, fights his way upright.

He meets the Baal's eyes for a blink, then ducks below one swiping wing and makes a move to get the crossbow. For a while, he does a great job of dodging the massive, claw-tipped wings being furiously swung at his head, until one of those claws clips him across the side of the face. He's rocked by the blow but manages to stay on his feet. On the next pass, the sharp nails snag his t-shirt, rake across his shoulder and leave a trail of fire.

Dean finally trips over the crossbow more than anything, has the presence of mind to reach for the weapon as he's crashing to the ground.

The Baal rushes him, hungry for the kill, jaws open and talons flashing in the lightning and moonlight as it reaches for him. He holds his breath as he squeezes the trigger, fires a bolt right through the beast's chest plate. It rears back, looses a wailing cry as its yellow eyes roll up, and then collapses in a boneless heap.

The entire thing is over in a matter of minutes, as quickly as it began, just like the rainstorm that cuts out as suddenly as if someone turned a faucet.

Dean's entire body trembles and aches, but he can't afford to stop now. His head is still strobing painfully and he swallows, shoves down the need to vomit. He crabs over to his father, movements awkward and sluggish. "Dad…"

"Dean." As soon as he's within arm's reach, Dad starts tugging at him, face contorted in pain, then sympathy, then back to pain as he shifts his legs. He runs his hands up Dean's grimy, bloody arms, skims his rain-slicked face and hair, assessing the damage. "You in one piece?"

He nods, though he almost loses what little dinner he had with the motion. "Yeah, mostly. What about you?"

"I'll be fine," Dad says gruffly, pushing impatiently at the cool, damp ground as he works to get his feet under him. "Just help me up."

Dean dips under his father's shoulder, scrabbles to grab the straps of the weapons bag as he hauls the man to his feet. He starts toward the path, but Dad locks his good leg, jerks his chin toward the Baal's body.

"Can't leave that thing here. Gotta get rid of the body."

"Right. Yeah." Dean swipes at his forehead, finds his hand coated liberally in blood. Whatever that thing did to his face, it feels like it should hurt, but it doesn't. Not yet, anyway.

They lucked out with the rain. The ground should be damp enough that they aren't in danger of incidentally burning down the entire forest when they torch the Baal's remains. But it also gives them a hell of a time lighting the fire, and Dad upends most of a bottle of lighter fluid over the stinking carcass before it ignites.

The adrenaline's fading and Dean knows the aches peppering his body are going to start picking up here real soon, but for the moment he feels _fantastic_ , and _God_ , he doesn't care if he never goes back to that school. It was an annoyance before but now, after this? School's pointless. Who could possibly give a shit about calculus or prom when killing some nasty mother feels like _this._

Dean's still too wired to be affected much by the smell of the remains burning at their feet, body humming with adrenaline. Dad, however, turns his face away from the rising flames, coughs.

That pain that's been so far keeping its distance pokes and pulls at his senses, and he brings up a hand to his slashed shoulder, hisses. Dad shoots him a worried look, and Dean forces a grin. "We shoulda brought marshmallows."

Dad doesn't smile, seems disproportionately somber in this moment of celebration. "You did good tonight, Dean," he says, but something about it rings hollow. That odd look comes across his face again as he raises a hand, lets it drop back to his side. "Let's go home, get you cleaned up."

"Yeah." A conspiratorial grin contorts his aching face. "Sam's gotta be losing his shit by now."

Dad nods, turns and limps toward the trail that will take them back to the parking lot, bending stiffly to collect the shotgun and second duffel. Dean hefts the crossbow, adjusts the strap of his bag, and follows suit.

The pain starts to settle on the way to the car: a deep ache in Dean's side that hadn't really registered before, fire along his temple and ice in his shoulder. His discomfort grows with every step; the rain might have stopped but the early spring chill has lingered. He shivers, really regretting his lack of additional layers. When he spots Sam, pale and wide-eyed, clutching the Glock in a white hand and very much losing his shit just as Dean had predicted, he tucks the pain away, tries for an easy, reassuring smile as he takes the gun from his little brother. He checks the safety with a shake of his head – _still on, rook_ – and returns it to the glove box, swiping blood from the side of his face and smearing it against the chest of his t-shirt.

Sam frowns. "What's wrong?"

Dean grins and shakes his head. He might a couple of interesting scars, but all in all, it was a hell of a night. "Nothin', Sammy. I'm awesome."


	3. Part III: John

John checks his watch, sighs. The boys are running late, likely taking their sweet time intentionally. Or Sam is, anyway – some coming-of-age power play, when the boy should be far too young for such antics. Dean, however…well, he's been getting into plenty of antics of his own. Just never where a hunt is concerned, the one instance where his eldest has shown respect from rules and structure.

John shuts the trunk as Dean hurries his little brother down the steps toward the car. He wants to let the sharp, metallic slam of the lid punctuate his annoyance, but can't help saying something. "About left you here."

"Blame the kid." With an exaggerated shove that sends his brother colliding with the Impala and earns a vicious glare from Sam.

John ducks his head and covers his amusement as he drops behind the wheel. His boys are horribly mismatched in size these days, but even though Sam's a little on the small side now, he's long-limbed, and John has a sneaking suspicion that there will come a time when he's able to lay his big brother out without breaking a sweat, and the kid's gonna remember these little pushes and shoves when that day finally comes.

On the way to the park, John doesn't turn on the radio or push in a tape, usually preferring to use these last moments preparing himself mentally for all the ways a hunt can go sideways, running a mental inventory of the trunk's contents and finalizing what he can of his approach and attack. Sam doesn't seem to mind the quiet, but Dean, on the other hand, fidgets like a spaz and executes some sort of drum solo against the dashboard, which John puts an end to with a single look. Dean's never known how to sit still, and he can't stand the quiet, and he fills the silence by showing off what he's learned of the Baal they're after. Truth be told, John's somewhat grateful that Sam doesn't seem to be having any of it. Dean needs to calm down, needs to level out and get his head straight before they get to the park.

It's likely the Baal's been living in the woods outside of town for some time now, keeping to shadows in the heavily forested area, but there've been a few sightings as the weather's started warming up, and it's killed some cattle and a few dogs. There's no telling when it will step up its game, and this is a good learning experience for both of them, but Sam's not interested in learning. It turns out he wasn't simply reveling in the quiet in the backseat, but pouting. When John pulls the Impala to a stop in the park's empty lot, he decides to step his own game.

"How long will this take?"

"It'll take as long as it takes, Sammy," Dean snaps back at his brother. "Chill."

"Two hours, tops," John answers as the boys come around to the trunk, with an edge he can't keep out of his tone, because he's growing concerned that this attitude of Sam's might become a permanent fixture.

Dean leans against the car, raises his eyebrows at his brother. "One."

John shakes his head, doesn't respond. The cockiness Dean's taken to displaying isn't exactly an attitude he'd like to see continue indefinitely, either. He pulls the loaded duffels from the trunk, hands the smaller of the two over to Sam, and lifts the crossbow.

Dean straightens, eyes gleaming. "Ooh, I call crossbow."

"In your dreams, kid." Dean's a fantastic shot, but he's also eager, and excitable, and John's been doing this long enough to know that eager and excitable will get you killed quick. He hands over a bag loaded with all the essentials instead, and after a moment's pause, a shotgun.

Dean's not ready. Not yet. Not to be the one who takes the kill shot. That'll change his boy, force him to grow up more than he already has. If Dean gets the opportunity or has the necessity to fire the sawed-off, it'll probably do little more than piss this damn thing off, but even so, John's not worried. Because he trusts himself to make that kill shot.

They walk the moonlit trails in relative silence for more than hour, weaving through the woods only minimally interrupted by typical brotherly irritation. Dean even seems to have calmed down some, which isn't unexpected. He's still wide-eyed and antsy, but he takes the hunt seriously. It's eerily quiet without the normal sounds of woodland wildlife, but the Baal had picked the woods clean before venturing out into town.

Honestly, John's surprised it takes Sam as long as it does to start complaining.

"Dad, it's late. We've already been out here for over an hour."

"You got somewhere else to be?"

Dean rolls his eyes, already holding the shotgun like he's got something to point it at. "He brought _homework._ "

John narrows his eyes. "This is important. Lives are at stake, Samuel." But he can't put the intended force or gravity behind the words, because he understands that Sam _should_ be worrying about homework.

He should ask but he already knows, Dean's not doing much homework anymore. His rapidly fading interest in school is partially John's own doing, because he's allowed his son to miss two days this week helping track the Baal, and it's not the first time. There's a message from the vice principal on the answering machine that he can't quite bring himself to listen to all the way through. Dean can make a bomb from items found on hardware store shelves but is failing chemistry. He can't be bothered to keep up with his assignments, but he can recite back a full exorcism in passable Latin, retains anything he reads from lore, and is always quick with an answer to one of Sammy's math worksheets.

John shouldn't be letting Dean miss so much school, but the kid's starting to get a dangerous, worrisome glint in his eyes. A bloodthirsty look. He would rather his son learn this right, and not get it into his fool head that he should start poking around and figuring it out for himself, like John did. Or would have, if not for people like Singer. Dean needs the guidance now, or he's gonna end up dead. Or worse.

Sam drops the bag to the ground with no regard for the contents, face set. "Lives of dogs, Dad. And unless you want me to tell Ms. Graham that I didn't finish my assignments because of the flying monster that's terrorizing the city, I need to get it done."

The kid has a point, as much as John hates to admit it. So he doesn't, just bends to retrieve the dropped duffel. "Dean, walk your brother back to the car."

Dean surprises him, throws his arms wide and pitches a tiny fit of his own. "Wh – Dad! You need backup."

"Then I suggest you stop talking and start walking." Might do them both some good, let Dean work off the rest of that nervous energy.

His shoulders fall. "Yes, sir." Dean gives his brother another one of those shoves he'll no doubt get back tenfold. "Let's go."

John watches them go, as well as he can before he loses them to the shadows, and feels a deep ache in his chest as he turns back to the trail. This isn't what he wanted for his boys. For his _family._ No sane person could ever see this life as the best-case scenario. But here they are.

He takes his time walking and sticks mostly to the marked trails, for Dean's benefit. He's not looking to go so deep into the woods his son won't be able to easily find him when he makes his way back, and it's probably dumb luck how easily he stumbles upon the Baal's home base. The trail ends in a sizable clearing he recognizes from his afternoon sweep, where most walkers would turn and go back the way they came. John spots a glistening smear of blood on one of the tree trunks that wasn't there earlier in the day. He squints as he slowly prowls the area beyond the tree, waiting for the moonlight to show him something more. A few softly-placed steps away from the clearing he comes upon an intricate tangle of twisted branches and loosened feathers – an obvious nest for this massive, winged monster.

John crouches carefully, soundlessly, and studies the mess in front of him. He appreciates the darkness, because a full view of the possibly-canine remains littering the nest might turn his stomach inside out. The smell of it might be enough on its own. He swallows, knows he needs to wait for Dean to make his way back but doesn't want the boy to have to see this. Because when all is said and done, Dean is still that – a boy.

There have been a couple of times over the course of the past few months, when John's been woken in the middle of the night by nothing more than father's instinct, to find Dean sitting in the streakily moonlit kitchen, pale and jittery and suffering insomnia, his mind racing and still unable to keep up with the world he knows exists beyond what most people choose to see and believe.

John thinks back on what had preoccupied his own mind when he was Dean's age. Girls and cars, mostly. And while his boy spends quite a bit of time obsessing over those normal things, his young mind is also filled with images of violence and death. Overloaded with lore, and strategy, and the knowledge of monsters existing in the dark to rival a child's worst nightmare.

John's eldest son has a smart mouth and a cocky attitude, and can't seem to keep his hands to himself. He spends a lot of time away on jobs, but he knows Dean is falling in and out of all the wrong crowds, cutting classes even when there isn't a hunt, picking fights and probably drinking, probably smoking, and it's not generic teenage restlessness. It doesn't seem to matter where they are or how long they stay in one place.

But these nights, on a hunt like this night, once he's gotten over the initial nerves Dean's sharp and present, and the quickest little shit out there.

He's also currently making a hell of a ruckus behind John.

"Dad."

"Surprised it didn't hear you," John answers. "Sure sounded like you snapped every damn twig running in here." If he's not careful, if he lets his guard down for even one minute too long, he's going to get hurt. And that's exactly why John's not ready to let him take that shot. John wipes the dirt from his hands, gestures to the nest he's found while keeping most of the view blocked. "It's been nesting here. Hasn't been gone long."

"What do you wanna do?" Dean asks, in a tight voice like he's trying not to breathe.

John bobs his head. "I want you find cover while I wait for this son of a bitch to come back."

"Dad –"

"Do as I say, Dean. Or you can go back to the car and wait with your brother." He rises slowly, keeping the crossbow at his side. The sky opens up and the rain finally starts, soft _pits_ and _pats_ against the leaves, the ground, his shoulders.

"Dad…"

"Now, Dean." He can feel it as he stands; the heaviness of the quiet in the clearing, the sudden exposed feeling taking over his senses. John hefts the crossbow as his eyes tick upward, and he knows they're not going to hear the Baal when it comes back. It's going to come from above, and it's going to go for the kill.

A stick _snaps_ behind John and he whirls. Dean's frozen in place, face white and childishly guilty. The Baal screeches, and the sound seems to be coming from everywhere, which is not helpful when you're waiting out a deadly attack.

John squares his shoulders and lifts the crossbow, shouts across the clearing. "Dean, down! Now!"

Dean drops at the order, rolls out of the open and, hopefully, out of sight. Just as anticipated, the Baal swoops from above, doesn't give John the courtesy of an open shot before it rocks his equilibrium with a deliberate flap of its wings. He falls to one knee, fingers reflexively tightening around the crossbow before he loses it.

The world is hazy and twirling around him, like a nauseating carnival ride. John shakes his head, which only serves to worsen the effects, and he's knocked viciously aside before he can recover. He hits something thick and muscular that connects painfully with his chest and flings him into something hard that explodes fireworks in his leg and head and dislodges not only his grip on the crossbow, but on consciousness.

He comes to with a mouthful of dirt and rainwater, with his son's name on his lips and a knot of fear in his chest. His eyes are nearly worthless, but he makes out two blurry shapes stumbling around the clearing, stalking each other. He blinks furiously, tries to focus on the smaller of the dark blobs. _Dean._ His son's movements are loose-limbed and awkward, clearly suffering the same effects as John. Dean drops, taking his eyes off the Baal, and John feels a spike of fear beneath the pain flaring in his leg and side and head.

"Dean!" he chokes out, pushing himself up from the ground, coughing on dirt and bits of dry leaf.

His shout rallies Dean, who takes a blind swing over his head and cracks the stock of the shotgun against the Baal's skull, rings its bell.

John tries to shove upright but his head swims and his vision fuzzes, and something in his chest protests. As he watches helplessly, Dean fights to stand and crashes back to his knees. "Dean!" he yells again, knowing he's going to have coach his boy through this one from the sidelines. "Wings!"

Dean wastes no time bringing up the shotgun and blasting through one of the creature's wings. It screams, a piercing, grotesque sound, and Dean turns back to him, eyes wide and face ghostly pale.

John grits his teeth and manages to shove himself into a seated position, but something his leg twinges and he's hit with the realization that's as far as he's going to make it for the time being. He nods encouragingly, though he hates what he's about to say. "Get the crossbow, Dean." He catches sights of the weapon in another lightning flash, guides Dean's eyes that direction with a jerk of his chin.

Dean scrambles to his feet and admirably, thankfully dodges the initial whirlwind of deadly wings as the Baal fights him off, but then he finally takes a hit to the face, another to the shoulder. John jerks at the sight, feeling the strikes as starkly as though he'd taken them, but Dean hangs in there and refuses to go down. Then he trips and hits the deck, and John growls low in his throat, tries vainly to get his feet under him and sees a flash of red as pain rips through his leg, his head.

When the spots dissipate, he sees that Dean has come up with the crossbow. His son's face hardens, but underneath the mask of bravado, John can see a child's fear.

HIS child's fear.

One last crack of lightning shows his son's eyes large and wet and afraid, and through his own pain, his own fear, John has the presence of mind to recognize that this will be the part of the story Dean will never tell. Not even to Sammy. The part where he's scared and hurting, and unsure whether either or both of them will make it out of the woods.

This is the moment that will make or break his boy, and John can hardly breathe as he watches Dean make the shot, sending a silver-tipped bolt straight through the chest of the Baal. The monster collapses to the side, keening for a few beats as it dies.

The rain slows and then altogether stops, almost like it was only there to ramp up the drama of the situation. Dean sags and drops the crossbow to the side, then starts the process of dragging himself across the clearing, bloody and trembling from pain or adrenaline. "Dad…"

"Dean." John shoves his own pain down, grips Dean's chin as soon as he's close enough and forces his son to meet his gaze. The cut at his temple – stretching from brow line to bury in the short hair over his ear – is deep and nasty-looking in the moonlight. The kid's lucky he didn't lose the eye.

It wasn't luck, not entirely. And there wasn't anything lucky about that shot he took. That was training, and skill, and pure instinct. That was Dean showing his father that he's ready, even if John's not mentally or emotionally prepared for him to be.

He continues his appraisal, runs his hands up his son's arms, feeling for unseen wounds, for broken bones. "You in one piece?"

"Yeah, mostly." Dean sloppily shrugs him away. He's covered in blood, shaking and so pale, but he pulls himself together quickly, wipes the blood from his face and transfers the mess to his filthy jeans. His eyes narrow seriously. "What about you?"

"I'll be fine," John answers curtly, still working to get that stubborn leg under him. "Just help me up." Dean dips under his shoulder with a grunt, and adrenaline is probably the only thing that gets them both to their feet.

Dean immediately turns toward the trail, but John knows they have to burn the Baal's remains. He's got a reputation that threatens to follow him everywhere they go, and can't risk arousing that sort of suspicion when he's promised Sam they'll finish out the school year here.

They stand for a moment at the fire, so John can work out the kink in his leg and make sure enough of the monster burns so that anything that's found won't be mistaken for anything otherworldly. Beside him, Dean grabs at his bloody shoulder and sucks in a pained noise through his teeth. He catches John watching and aims for a grin, but what he actually manages is more of a grimace. "We shoulda brought marshmallows."

John raises a heavy, weary hand, but lets it drop uselessly to his side. He wants to gather his son in a bear hug and squeeze the breath out of the boy, but can't take this moment from him. "You did good tonight, Dean." It's a calculated risk, allowing just enough pride to surface without encouraging the eager little shit to start sniffing out more hunts, or worse, a job he thinks he can take on by himself. He jerks his chin. "Let's go home, get you cleaned up."

His leg aches with every step back to the parking lot and to Sam, but he refuses the help Dean offers. He makes his son walk in front, keeping him centered in his eye line the entire way, and recognizing that something has changed over the course of this night.

Dean's got a taste for it now, and that's not something that will easily shake free. John knows that much from experience. His son never had much of a childhood, but whatever whiff of one was left was just forcibly extinguished when he took that shot, and made that kill.


End file.
